


I need only to be one definition

by Polyhexian



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Morning Sex, Multi, POV Second Person, PWP, Polyamory, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyhexian/pseuds/Polyhexian
Summary: Warm and fluffy morning smut, exactly what it says on the tin
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl (Transformers)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	I need only to be one definition

You wake to the feeling of warmth against your lower back and whispers near your audial, and it takes you a moment to recalibrate to being conscious. Cyclonus is pressed flush with your spinal strut, one arm crossing your side to cup Tailgate's jawline, his cheek pressed against your abdomen. They're murmuring something to each other, warm and shifting around you like some kind of weird bot sandwich. 

"I don't want to wake Whirl," Cyclonus says, his voice low beside your helm and you shiver at the way it reverberates in your back where it touches his chest, "He never gets enough sleep."

"'M awake now," you mumble, shifting to wrap your arms tighter around Tailgate, who immediately wriggles into your grasp.

"Apologies," rumbles Cyclonus, still speaking softly, "Go back to sleep, love."

"Are we being frisky?" You ask with a yawn, wiggling your hips back against Cyclonus's warm interface panel, "I wanna be frisky."

"He wants to be frisky, Cyclonus!" Tailgate giggles under his breath. You don't know why you're all still whispering. 

"Who I am to deny him his amorous attention, then?" Cyclonus muses, working his hips against the breadth of your aft, warm and becoming warmer, sliding his hand away from Tailgate's mask to run his claws up your stomach plating and over his chest artillery. You shiver.

Tailgate wriggles himself lower, reaching over your waist to grasp at Cyclonus, and you arch into Cyclonus's erogonous explorations, just as he tilts and you feel his spike press hard against your spine. You can't help but squirm as his hips twitch, rutting shallowly against you, everything warm and tactile. Tailgate's hand finds your interface panel and smooths over it, fingers teasing, beckoning against seam lines and you can't possibly stay closed against such an offer. 

"No fair," you mumble, running your claws over his aft, the closest you ever let those get to anyone's equipment, "I can't touch you back."

"You could, if you weren't so paranoid," he chuckles, kissing your abdomen again, mask laced with static. You huff, but his fingers tease the folds of your valve, swollen and soft and wet, and your thighs pull apart without even your instruction, pleading silently for more. As you do, Cyclonus cants his hips to tilt downward, the head of his spike nudging against the lips of your valve. You make a terrifically embarrassing noise, soft and laced with static and sounding altogether delicate, entirely antithetical to your nature. Tailgate giggles at it but refrains from further comment, bless his spark. 

His hand smooths over Cyclonus's spike, pumping him as he moves shallowly through the folds of your valve, slick and wanting. They're maddening, the both of them, how happy they are to do things slowly. You're impatient. 

You squeeze your thighs around Cyclonus's spike, arching your back, and you are rewarded with a hard shudder from him and he gives you a pat, a silent request to turn over. 

You oblige greedily, flopping onto your back and making grabby claws for him as he clambers over top of you. Your cockpit is in the way as usual- it seems much more nicely placed when someone is riding you, holding it for support, but given the choice you would always much prefer to be on the receiving end of a good spiking, and here, it's really blocking your view. 

Luckily you have someone else in berth to crawl up and pepper the side of your helm with little static kisses, a welcome distraction from your mechanical annoyance. This is one of those times you definitely wish you were better equipped for foreplay beyond just making out while Tailgate humps your shoulder, but, you're gonna have to learn to live with that eventually. 

Cyclonus hikes your legs up over his and lines himself up against your entrance, as inviting as it ever was, and you can't help but sigh when he leans forward and pushes inside you. Something something feeling full is like feeling whole, you're too busy feeling good to feel particularly poetic. 

"You're being such a starfish," Tailgate teases you, still holding your helm with his warm little hands. 

"You woke me up," you sniff defensively, but you scoot up so you can plant your pedes flat and get some leverage to move your hips in time with Cyclonus's. His pace quickens when you do, both hands grasping at your waist and tugging at you to thrust in deeper, finding all those delicious little nodes you love having stimulated most. You reach up behind your helm to grasp at the headboard of the berth, claws wrapping around struts, back arching. 

You gasp and pant and you barely register Tailgate crawling away before you feel his hand brush your spike and maybe it's just the surprise of it but you clamp your thighs down and overload, entire body trembling with the tension of it as it rocks through you. 

Your legs go slack, still panting, and he's still pressurized when he pulls out and lets Tailgate bowl him over to finish him off, but you just stew in the hazy morning afterglow, sighing and feeling warm air gush through your vents. If you could go back in time and tell yourself like a year ago that you were gonna have mornings like this getting laid with two (2) boyfriends and no ship duty to be late for you would have laughed in your own face. And then maybe fooled around, because it's one of your fantasies to frag yourself from the future. You're getting distracted.

You dig around your subspace for a rag to clean up with before you start feeling less cozy and more gross and flop onto your side to watch Tailgate finish being an insatiable little monster and ride Cyclonus all the way home. The lurch is lucky he has you to share Tailgate with, or their favorite minibot would almost definitely run him empty inside of a week. 

You don't know how you got so lucky. You've not done anything to deserve it, but maybe it doesn't work that way. 

You steal all the blankets while they're busy. 


End file.
